The Secret Ball
by Jo-9tails
Summary: A retelling of The Twelve Dancing Princesses GW style. 3x4, 1x2
1. Prologue

06/01/06; 6:15 p.m.

I am not dead yet. I think.

Standard disclaimers apply. Plot ain't mine, people. Got it from "The Night Dance" by Suzanne Weyn. All credit goes to this marvelous author.

**The Secret Ball**

By _Ninetails_

_Prologue:_

Quatre pressed his slim body into the cool shadowy corner of the high wall in the empty courtyard. Shaded by the towering building behind him, his blonde hair seemed to take on a more golden hue. A determined glint deepened his lively, sky-colored eyes into a stormy blue-gray.

Furtively glancing back at the towering manor that was his home, he saw one of his eleven siblings, Iria, peer out from a high, narrow window. Even from this distance he could read the look of longing in his sister's expression. Prickly though Iria could be, Quatre still sympathized with the trapped restlessness he knew his sister felt. Still, he couldn't take the chance of being seen, and he shrank farther into the shadows.

_Raaaaaawrk! _Quatre's hand suddenly flew to the absent scabbard that was normally on his buckle as he turned toward an open kitchen window on the first floor of the manor. The panicked squawk of a captive pheasant had made him jump.

Rasha, the cook, appeared in the window with a small axe held high over her head and the bird clasped firmly in her other hand. She ended the struggling creature's life swiftly with a strong, well-placed blow to its neck against a chopping board. Then she strode away from the table by the window with the beheaded pheasant in her arms, setting about the business of preparing the bird for roasting.

When Quatre turned his attention back to the upper window, Iria was no longer there. In the next minute, Rasha reappeared at the kitchen window, but only for a second, to pull the shutters closed.

Quatre waited, barely breathing, for several minutes more. Soon he felt confident that things were finally as he had hoped they'd be at this hour. His siblings would be busy with their embroidery, or in Duo's case, setting up pranks for any unwary household member. Their father, Sir Winner of Gaul, was reviewing his monthly accounts, a process that usually took hours. Most likely he wouldn't lift his head from his books until Hilde, the head housemaid, summoned him for dinner.

Reaching into the cobalt blue velvet cape he wore against the late spring's still-cool breezes, Quatre withdrew a small iron cleaver that he'd smuggled from the kitchen. Even in this shadowed spot, its blade gleamed. His father's military past had left him with a love of rules, order, and efficiency. Among his many dictates to the servants was his insistence that they regularly sharpen all the household blades on a whetstone.

A scuffle at his feet caused his eyes to dart downward. He immediately jumped back, startled by a tiny gray field mouse that had scurried in through the narrow opening that rose from the base of the wall in an inverted v-shape. The creature paused for a moment to stare up at him, then zigzagged its way across the courtyard, probably headed for the kitchen.

When his heart had settled, Quatre turned again toward the wall. With eager fingers, he traced the lines of a crack that traveled from the top of the break in the wall halfway up to the top. Several fissures snaked out from the main fracture, further weakening this section of the enclosure.

The day before, when Hilde had ordered two of the house boys to remove a brown, dead, potted tree – one of the many potted plants adorning the slate-tiled courtyard – from this corner of the courtyard, Quatre had first noticed the break in the wall. He instantly recognized the opportunity he'd been hoping for.

With the cleaver in his firm grip, he attempted several slow practice passes to be sure that when the moment was right, his aim would be accurate. Then, wrapping his fingers around the cleaver's iron handle, he waited, his back pressed against the wall.

In the next moment, the bell from the monastery outside the nearby town chimed as it always did at this hour, calling the monks to prayer.

_Now! _Quatre thought wildly. He smashed the cleaver's blade down into the line of the crack, the deeply satisfying crash masked by the resonating bell.

The cleaver stuck fast into the wall. With two hands, he frantically yanked it out and struck again.

_And now!_

_And now!_

Again and again, he savagely wielded the blade into the cracks, straining every lean muscle of his lithe body. With each blow his joy mounted as the crumbling powdery stone tumbled to his feet.

The bell ceased its summoning toll.

Dropping to his knees, Quatre took a quick moment to recover from his violent effort and then pushed the debris away from the opening. He lay flat on his stomach and rolled onto his right shoulder. From this vantage point it was immediately apparent that even if he managed to get his head through the opening, his shoulders would never make it.

Quatre rolled back up into a crouch and then slowly stood, resolving not to give in to disappointment. The monastery bell would chime again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, just as it had rung at the same hour on every day of his life. There would be other chances to chip away at this wall, the cursed barrier that had closed him off from the wide, glorious world for the past twelve years, since the time when his mother had left them.

TBC

--

**A/N:**

Intrigued?

Heck, I'm back with another 3x4 demo... I haven't had an update for "Shahrastini" in months! For the people reading this who have read that fic, gomen nasai!! Here I am starting another fic, and I don't know when I'll be able to update again! School starts next week so 'tis HELL time for me again. Tasuketeeee!!

No, I did not meant for Gaul to mean "Old France." There's this character in Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series named Gaul and I totally adore that particular Aiel. Heh.

The title sucks, I know. I'm gonna change it once I think up something fitting...


	2. Chapter 1

06/01/06; 7:55 p.m.

Standard disclaimers apply.

**The Secret Ball**

By _Ninetails_

Chapter 1_: Once upon a time…_

… Maxwell of Gaul found himself lost in a towering primeval forest. Although he had not wandered far from his military encampment, he was now strangely at a loss as to how to return to it.

While camped with his fellow soldiers, he'd spied a boar rustling through the underbrush. He immediately imagined the wild, tusked pig roasting over an open flame, a succulent meal for hungry men. Withdrwaing his knife from his belt, he also grabbed his spear and set off after the creature.

He'd learned his experrt hunting skills from his grandfather, who had been a Roman legionnaire during the last days that Imperial Rome ruled over his counrty. slaying this boar promised to be an easy task.

Yet every time Maxwell came within striking range, the boar mysteriously reapperaed several yards farther on. Frustrated, but determined, he continued to pursue the animal, convinced that the wavering, dappled light filtering through the ancient trees was simply playing tricks on his eyes. He chased the boar over a hill and down an embankment that led to a place less densely crowded with trees.

The boar stood in a patch of sunlight as if awaiting him.

Maxwell halted, perplexed. What was happening? Why had the elusive animal suddenly grown so still?

Before Maxwell's astonished eyes, the boar began to roll on its back and belly, its tusks flashing as it grunted frantically, and while it performed this frenetic act, a glistening pond began to spread underneath its portly, graceless body.

Spear raised, Maxwell cautiously approached the scuffling boar. With each step, the ground beneath his boots grew increasingly muddy. In a moment, he stood in an ever-deepening puddle of water. He gazed around, dumbstruck with wonder, as the puddle became a knee-deep pond and then rapidly continued to increase for a great distance.

Slabs of land where trhrust up at odd angles under the force of the expanding water. a tremendous flat boulder heaved up from beneath the creacked earth, jutting into the new lake and forming a natural dock.

So great was Maxwell's amazement that he momentarily forgot about the boar. When he finally checked for it, he saw that, in the place where it had been, a woman now stood in water that rose to just below her bosom.

White blond hair waved down to her slender shoulders and fanned out around her on the water. Vivid blue eyes shone from her beautiful pale face. An almost sheer, powder blue shift, banded under her breast with golden cord, clung to her. Her form beneath the clinging fabric was increasingly visible as she moved toward him through the shimmering lake.

When they were face to face, with the water swirling around them, the woman ran her hand along the sleeve of his rough tunic and rested her head on his shoulder, her hair cascading down. "I knew you would come," she said softly.

Maxwell put his hard soldier's hand on the back of her neck and stroked her impossibly soft hair, his once untamed heart now completely captive.

----------------------

Maxwell was never certain if his great love for Helena was real or a magical enchantment. He didn't much care, either.

With his own hands, he built a home of stone and wood there in the ancient forest beside the lake that had appeared on the day he'd first encountered Helena. When a traveling monk came to them one day, desperate for directions back to the road, Maxwell prevailed upon him to perform a wedding, uniting the two lovers as husband and wife. As soon as the marriage ceremony was completed, the monk stumbled away from them, suddenly seeming to know how to leave the forest.

Within nine months, Helena gave birth to twin daughters whom they named Iria and Eleanore. The next nine months brought another set of twin girls, Saens and Elana. In three years more, Helena gave birth to Sumire and Nozomi, Gayle and Ayame, Anna and Margarette. The last pair of twins were boys, named Duo and Quatre. Twelve children in all, six sets of twins. In little less than five years, Maxwell became the father of twelve children all under the age of five.

Helena ran her lively, sometimes chaotic, brood with astounding ease. A toddler - oftentimes Duo – leaning too far out a window was mysteriously drawn back inside with a firm look from Helena. Any crancky cry was instantly soothd by the melodies she crooned to them in her lilting, crystal voice.

For his part, Maxwell worked ceaselessly, hunting, farming a small plot in the front yard, and fishing in the magical lake beside the house. He loved this life and his only source of concern was that Helena sometimes left for periods of time, usually in the evening once the children were asleep. She would step out the back dorr and walk off into the forest. When he questioned her upon her return several hours later, she always answered him in the same way: "Sometimes there are things I must do. Have no worry, dearest love. my heart is always with you and my princes and princesses."

Maxwell loved and trusted his wife, so he didn't question her further. For ten years she left from time to time, but always came back. As long as Helena returned to him, Maxwell was satisfied.

Except that one day she did not return.

Leaving the younger children in the care of the older ones, Maxwell went out to search for Helena. Two days later, hoarse from calling her nbame, he stumbled out of the forest and trudged down a dirt road. He walked until he collapsd from lack of food, water, and sleep.

When he awoke in a monastery another two days later, the monk, Brother Ethan, who had found him, claimed he'd been talking while he slept. "You were calling for a woman."

Maxwell asked the monks if they knew anything of his wife, Helena. "It's a name we have heard tell of in myths and local legends," Brother Ethan said. "We believe you have been bewitched by a forest spirit."

"But I have children," Maxwell objected, pulling himself upright on the plain cot on which he was lying

"Most likely, you dreamed them," said Brother Ethan. "Forget about them. stay here with us and count yourself blessed to be back in the world of reality."

Maxwell was instantly on his feet, heading for the door. Before he was over the threshold though, he collapsed once again.

The monk tended to him and in a day more, Maxwell was once again strong. Although the monks of the monastery implored him to stay, insisting that his children were not real, Maxwell was determined to get back to them.

Heading down the road, he recognized the spot where he had been encamped as a soldier ten years earleir. He entered the forest there and easly found his way toward his house. It seemed strange to him that he could have ever lost his way; it was so clear to him now. indeed, it did seem as though some sort of fog had been lifted from his mind.

When he came over the embnkment near where he lived, he stopped, a terrible fear gripping him. his house was below, where he had built it. but the glistening lake beside it was gone. Only the jutting boulder remained.

An overpowering terror seized him as he recalled what the monks had said. Perhaps these past ten eyars with Helena and his twelve perfect children had never happened.

What if, all these years, he had been no more than a madman under a spell?

Maybe there never had been a lake in this spot.

Maybe there had been no Helena. No children.

With a pounding, frantic heart he raced down the hill, scattering leaves and branches in his desperate need to know the truth, no matter how terrible.

Throwing open the front door, he was greeted by the questioning gaze of twelve sets of hopeful young eyes seated at various places around the room. "Did you find mother?" Iria asked.

Words choked in his throat. He was so overcome with relief to see that his children were indeed real – to observe some small resemblance to their mother in their expectant, upturned faces – that he collapsed into a chair and became engulfed with great, heaving sobs.

In that moment he somehow knew that these twelve children were all he had left of Helena. Despair mingled with relief as he dropped his head into his hands and continued to sob disconsolately.

One by one his children came to him, stroking and hugging him with their small, tender, consoling hands. This great figure of a heaving, sobbing man, their father, was all they had left as well.

-------------------------

Four months passed and Maxwell finally stopped looking out the door at twilight, hoping for Helena's miraculous, improbable return. With his once fervent hopes at last fully faded, he decided to pack away her clothing and other things.

It was while cleaning out Helena's possessions that he came upon a carved wooden box hidden at the bottom of a trunk. Opening it, he discovered brilliant blue sapphires and gleaming diamonds inside. Pouring these gems into a leather hunting pouch, he traveled by foot to the nearby town to see what this unexpeced treasure would buy him. The children followed him as far as the front doorway. "Stay put. I will return," he told them as he bolted the door.

Within two days he returned on horseback, leading a veritble army of artisans and ox-drwan carts carrying every sort of building supply. In the lead of this strange procession were axe-wielding men who hacked a wide swathe through the forest.

The twelve children watched, both excited and a bit worried, while day after day the ground shook as additional trees were felled and the land cleared. The air rang with the hammering and banging of working men. Each day their lovely cottage expanded and grew, climbing higher here, widening there. Soon the original cottage lay in the center of a grand manor house. Masons surrounded this new home with a wall nearly ten feet high

When the building was done, Maxwell still had sapphires and diamonds remaining in his puch. He used them to obtain marble flooring from Rome, mirrors framed in gold from the mines in the high cliffs, carved furniture from faraway lands, and pottery and dishware imprted from Asia. He procured linens, weavings, bits of odds and ends, and dyed woolens from the men who traversed the seas. His children would want for nothing.

Except freedom.

When the building and furnishing was finished, Sir Maxwell shut the ornate, ten-foot wrought iron gate that connected both sides of the wall, bolting the lock with a resounding clang. Nothing would get in – and no one would get out.

Only Maxwell would come and go from this lavish prison in the forest. Furninshing his new home had made him familiar with the ways of importing. Being so close to the Main Channel gave him easy access to the ships that arrived with goods from other places. With his remaining gems to start him off, Maxwell was soon a thriving merchant of imports.

His twelve children, once so used to runnng barefoot through streams and building mud people beside their now-vanished lake, were shut in. having lost Helena to the forest, Sir Maxwell was determined to suffer no more losses.

TBC 

------------------------

**A/N:**

So much for a bit of the story's background. Heh. Christmas break is coming soon (ok, two weeks is not 'soon' but I'm trying to be optimistic) and I hope I could work on my fics at that time. Toxicity rules my life these days. Gomen. Hope you're starting to have the gist of this story… 


	3. Chapter 2

01/12/07; 8 p.m.

Standard disclaimers apply. Story and characters ain't mine. No point in suing me.

**The Secret Ball**

By _Ninetails_

Chapter 2_: The Lady of the Lake…_

Helena gazed up from her watery prison below the lake's surface. Never had her determination to break free of the enchantment that trapped her there been greater.

In a dream, she had seen that her nephew, Arthur, leader of the united Seven Kingdoms of Britain, High King of Camelot, was in mortal danger. lake's surface. Never had her determination to break free of the enchantment that trapped her there been greater.

In a dream, she had seen that her nephew, Arthur, High King of Camelot, was in mortal danger.

She was the leader of the magical realm of Avalon, and Helena's visions were not the mere dreams of a sleeper. Through the years of mystical study, she had cultivated her dreaming ability until it functioned as yet another way of seeing. Even now, locked away in an underground lake, important _dreams _still came to her.

And this _dream _disturbed her greatly. In it, Arthur was fighting for his life. Even the enchanted sword, Excalibur, which she had given him, would not be powerful enough to protect him against his foe, Mordred.

Her kinswoman, Morgan le Fay, mistress of the dark and Arthur's half sister, had sent her son, Mordred, into a battle against Arthur. She had concocted a lethal poison into which Mordred had dipped the tip of his own sword.

Helena had sworn to her dying sister, Ingraine, Arthur's mother, that she would always protect young Arthur from harm. She had used her magic to fashion him a sword so magical that it would protect him from all bodily harm. It made Arthur invincible in battle and nearly immortal.

Creating Excalibur had been her crowning achievement. All her skill at harnessing the forces of nature and magic had gone into its formation. More than ever, she was thankful for all she had learned from Merlin, the greatest wizard of the age.

Merlin had been a generous mentor, revealing to her secrets of magic and wizardry previously known only to him. but she paid a price for being his only student. There were those in Avalon who envied her friendship with the ancient sorcerer. As an excuse to attack her, they insisted that she be punished for intending to grant powers reserved for the mystic realm to a mortal.

In her own defense, Helena argued that Arthur was entitled to it as a son of Ingraine, a sorceress of Avalon. It didn't matter that his father was the chieftain Uther Pendragon, a mortal. Arthur's mother was from Avalon, and he was entitled to the protection of Avalon.

Helena's enemies were not swayed. Rumors spread that they plotted against her life.

She hid the sword away for the day when Arthur, who was still a child, would require it. And then she made plans to hide in the mortal realm in order to escape the wrath of those she had angered.

Conjuring a spell, she wished for her perfect mortal lover. Maxwell's face instantly appeared in the scrying bowl, the gold-lined vessel used in the old ways for magical seeing. The moment she laid eyes on his strong face she understood that, though he was only mortal, complete happiness would be hers if she could win him.

And win him, she did. At first, she used a spell to lure him and make him love her, but soon their union became the partnership of true soul mates.

Their life together exceeded her wildest hopes for happiness. She had children quickly, wanting to make up for the time she had lost as a childless woman of magic. She luxuriated in the oceanic pleasures of true love that she received from both her babes and her devoted husband. For ten years she lived an idyllic existence, hiding in the mortal world.

From time to time she would walk out of her cottage and use her scrying bowl to check on Arthur. The day finally came, however, when young Arthur's first sword, the one he pulled from the stone set in place by Merlin, was smashed in battle. Struggling valiantly, Arthur won the day even with half a sword, but he would require a new weapon.

He would need Excalibur.

So she set out to take Excalibur and its scabbard from its hiding place beneath the magical lake she had formed outside her cottage. She gave it to the young king as a gift, asking only that he return it to her upon his death.

For years Arthur prospered with Excalibur's help, uniting his kingdom, staving off outside invasions, building the glorious kingdom of Camelot, and creating the Round Table of revered and noble knights.

More years passed and she continued to observe Arthur's triumphs through her scrying bowl, keeping her word to her sister to make sure he stayed safe. But a time came when the vision she saw in her bowl was disturbing. Through magical trickery, Morgan le Fey had stolen Excalibur and given it to a knight named Accolon whom she had seduced. Helena saw that Morgan's plan was to have Accolon slay A Arthur using Excalibur to do the job.

Rushing to Arthur's aid, Helena abruptly left the cottage one evening. Traveling by magic means, she found Morgan le Fey at Camelot with Accolon.

In a fury of spells and counterspells, curses and antidotes, they battled. Afraid, Accolon tried to rid himself of the sword and scabbard by throwing them into a nearby lake. Assuming a watery form, Helena disappeared below the surface to retrieve them. When she resurfaced her enemies had fled.

She was able to give the sword back to the grateful Arthur, but upon her return to her cottage home, she was ambushed by Morgan le Fey and Accolon. The knight plunged her into the lake while Morgan le Fey exercised her dark powers, sinking the lake many miles below the Earth's surface into a huge subterranean cavern and sealing it with an impenetrable surface, like a bubble of inescapable magic.

After falling, the lake seemed to settle. Helena could see that no sun filtered through the water. only a pale glow from above reached her. It was even fainter than moonlight.

Helena quickly discovered that though she could hover near the top, she couldn't break through the surface of the water. It was as though it had been coated with some thickening agent that she could not penetrate.

_What new magic was this? _It confounded her. She sank again to the bottom, wondering what enchantment Morgan had conjured that she could stump her in this way. For all her training, Helena had never seen a spell like this.

Did they think they had drowned her? Morgan had to know that water was Helena's element. She was at home in it as a fish. In fact, that was why she had created the lake next to her cottage, because she could not stand to be too far from water.

Despite this, her kinswoman/s magic proved surprisingly powerful and Helena's own powers had been weakened by her struggle with the sinister enchantress. Mo amount of focus or concentration was sufficient to free her from this watery prison.

The days passed as Helena tried to undo the spell that held her. Before long, she had exhausted all her counter charms and spells.

Not knowing what else to do, she languished there below the ground beside her cottage, so near and yet completely unable to contact those she loved so passionately.

If only she had her scrying bowl. But she had set it down at the foot of an ancient, gnarled tree before setting off on her quest to defeat Morgan le Fey and Accolon. With it she might at least observe how her little children fared without her, how her beloved Maxwell was managing in her absence.

She couldn't understand why one of her children had not picked up the bowl by now. She hadn't left it far from the cottage. Certainly they were forever wandering through the woods. They had her restless, curious spirit and their father's fearless courage.

Something was keeping them away from it. She sensed it. And it made her afraid that some harm or imprisonment had befallen them. she hoped for a dream of them, but none came.

In time, a degree of strength returned to her. For a while, she spent all her energy directing magic at the seal that covered her. But Morgan's magic held fast there.

Finally giving up on that plan, she turned instead to the task of finding a side way out. Helena spent the next days of her imprisonment probing with her magic, and she had some success in blasting out water tunnels.

She created a network of many paths under the ground. The tunnels would full with water until they turned upward, above the water. from that point, the tunnels traveled through dry ground and under rock ledge, finally coming out to the natural cavern under the earth where her lake was now located.

With all her focus and memory for the landscape near her home, she continued to blast out tunnels. She clamped her eyes shut and tried to envision every tunnel, blasting out new ones that led out of the cavern.

She created these pathways with the diligence of a burrowing mole. She used her magic to fill each tunnel with the music of Avalon, music she remembered loving as a child. If she was ever able to escape, she wanted this magical music to be there to guide her way back to her cottage.

The last tunnel she dug with her magic would lead from the cavern right into a root cellar under her cottage – at least she hoped it did; she couldn't be sure. It was this last tunnel that inspired her to hope an escape might be possible.

When this last tunnel was completed, she headed toward the nearest underground opening, intending to travel up and into the cavern and to go from there to her cottage. But as soon as she got near the underwater entrance, she was thrown backward.

That impenetrable bubble that sealed her off from the surface was apparently all around her, not only above. Morgan had apparently learned her spell-making well. Even with the powerful training Helena had received in Avalon from Merlin, she could not break through this enchantment.

She had to face the truth: She could not get out on her own. Someone from the outside would need to find a way to free her.

Closing her eyes, Helena touched the tops of her fingers together and focused her mind. Gone was the whirlwind of emotional torment, replaced by an imposed calm. Using the methods of mental discipline she had studied with Merlin, Helena concentrated on contacting her children.

At least one of them, if not all, must have inherited some of her mystical powers. She'd often noticed Quatre, the younger of her twin boys – her baby – staring off into space with a faraway look in his beautiful aqua eyes as though he were seeing some vision from another time and place. It was a sure sign that he had the vision, and it was what Helena was not counting on.

TBC 

------------------------

**A/N:**

A bit more background before the story progresses. The next chappie will finally feature Quatre. I swear, I'm not gonna put off this fic anymore. I hope. Midterm exams are coming up so please bear with me. Gomen. I'm gonna upload Chapter 3 after this since I won't have time for the next few days (or weeks) … hope you liked this chapter. Gah, I missed writing fics. _Shahrastini _is a lost cause, for now. Heh. 


	4. Chapter 3

01/21/07; 7:30 a.m.

Standard disclaimers apply. Story and characters ain't mine. No point in suing me.

**The Secret Ball**

By _Ninetails_

Chapter 3_: Quatre's Escape…_

After weeks of chipping away at the opening, Quatre finally managed to squeeze his shoulders through the narrow break in the wall and finally drew his legs through to the other side. He stood and gazed at the giant pines surrounding him, feeling like a baby, newly born into a wonderful, wide world. He breathed deeply, drawing in the pungent fragrance of pine needles and bark, moss and mud.

He had walked forward into the forest, calculating that he had about an hour before he would have to return. He'd told his siblings that he would be practicing his forms out in the back garden so he wouldn't be joining them for awhile.

"Why show interest in your forms now?" his twin, Duo, had questioned. "You always say that violence should never be bestowed upon another human."

Quatre shrugged. "I'm bored of reading books that I've read countless time, twin-of-mine," he answered. That much, at least, had been true.

"I heard that you, Duo, were asking Rasha to teach you to cook!" their sister, Sumire, said breathily. "'Tis a bit too surprising of you, yes? but I'd love to have guests over and feed them and have big parties in the evenings. That's what I dream of. Oh, but father never lets anyone near us. He's too frightened that a guest might sneak out with one of us hidden under his cloak."

"That venture would not be too successful if you manage to cook yourself," added her twin, Nozomi. The guests wouldn't come, for fear of dying upon tasting your cooking…"

Quatre smiled at recalling his sisters' antics, then took one more step and remembered that he wore the silk slippers his father had commissioned for them from a shoemaker in the nearby village. His father said the material was made by worms that spun it in far off Oriental lands. It had been brought by ship and cost him dearly.

The slippers were beautiful, made in shiny, deep, jewel tones, edged with trim embroidery that managed to not be too feminine for him. They were wonderfully comfortable , but they were not suited to outside wear since they tore easily and showed every bit of dirt. Since the siblings never went farther than the slate-tiled back gardens, they were fine. But a walk in the forest would destroy them and would reveal that he'd gone out. Removing the slippers, he stuck one in each cloak pocket and continued on, barefoot.

Without the benefit of shoes, Quatre had to pick his way carefully over rocks and fallen branches. He walked until he felt certain he could not be seen from any high manor window, then, shrugging off his cape and hanging it on a branch, he crawled up onto a large flat boulder that was drenched in sun and stretched out.

The rock was warm and felt good against his skin. He pushed up the long sleeves of his shirt to feel more of it against him.

Closing his eyes into the sun produced dancing flashes of orange, red, and yellow bursts behind his lids. An insect chirped and the repetitive sound lulled him hypnotically. Soon he lapsed into a half sleep, and a scene took form behind his closed lids.

_Hundreds of armed men and horses battled on a field. Swords clashed and arrows flew. He was peering out of eyes that were not his own. A veil of blood splashed before him as a soldier crumpled to the ground. An anguished cry of pain grabbed his attention and spun him around. "Noooo!" someone shouted, and he had the feeling he was the one who had spoken._

_Then he felt himself seem to lift into the air. Glancing down, he saw the whole panorama of the violent battle, and directly below him, he saw a soldier. His armor was sprayed with blood. As his knees buckled beneath him, he threw back the metal visor of his helmet and gazed upward, torment written across his one visible green eye…_

Quatre's eyes snapped open. Once again he was in the tranquil forest, but his heart was pounding. He searched in every direction, looking for signs of battle. Only the gentle noises of nature surrounded him.

Feeling unnerved by this violent vision, he slid off the rock, grabbed his cape, and hurried back to the wall. Once back in the courtyard, he pulled a potted tree in front of the opening to conceal it from view and put his slippers back on.

When he entered the sewing room where his sisters were, he sensed Iria scrutinizing him. His eldest sister was keenly observant so Quatre was especially careful to appear normal and happy, joking with his sisters about Duo's cooking and betraying nothing.

"How was the practice session?" Saens asked.

"Smelly," Quatre answered. "Don't come near me, I must reek of sweat and dirt."

At supper that night, the siblings joined their father, as they always did, at the long table in the high-ceilinged dining hall. The meal went on around him as he mechanically put food in his mouth, only half-aware of the lively conversation his sisters were having regarding a new eight-foot-long tapestry, featuring a castle and a royal forest, that his father had had imported from Siuan. "There's a prince depicted on it who is so manly," Eleanor gushed enthusiastically.

"He's fine, but I like the adorable unicorn that walks alongside the princess," Ayame offered.

Duo, who up until now was savoring the meal he cooked in peaceful silence, answered with a mischievous glitter in his eyes. "'Twould be better depicted if said prince was saving his princess from a vicious forest creature and all the blood and gore are scattering – "

At the chorus of "DUO!"s from his various sisters, he wisely stopped his runaway mouth and turned to his only ally, his twin brother. Expecting to find the same mischievous grin, Duo grew silent and a pondering look entered his amethyst eyes at the half-worried, half-absent look in his twin's eyes.

"Where will the tapestry hang, Father?" Gayle said, valiantly trying to rescue their conversation.

"I was thinking of putting it right here in the dining hall," her father replied.

Ayame frowned. "I was hoping the prince could be in _our _room."

Sir Maxwell raised an eyebrow and cast a wary glance at her. "I'd sat it's definitely going into the dining hall."

Quatre liked the tapestry, but he was unable to care much about it. The soldier's face that he had seen in his vision haunted him. It was as if, in that moment, they had exchanged something mysterious and deep.

How could he feel so connected to a man he had never met?

TBC 

------------------------

**A/N:**

Well that was short. Heh. Duo - cooking! ... The first one to guess who this _mysterious _soldier is will receive a box of (imaginary) strawberry-flavored pocky from me! Whee! Pocky overload! Gah, I should stay away from pocky. Makes me like _this_. (collapses from the sugar high) 


	5. Chapter 4

01/22/07; 4:35 p.m.

Standard disclaimers apply. The gore ensues. Be warned, or face the consequences of my less-than-working brain.

**The Secret Ball**

By _Ninetails_

Chapter 4_: Sir Trowa, The Last Knight of the Round Table…_

Trowa bent low in order to hear Arthur more clearly. As he attuned his ear to the dying king's words, he gazed out over the corpse-strewn battlefield. Fallen men from both sides of the horrific fight lay with their limbs still entangled in combat, their blood-soaked bodies turning the grass a blackish red. Their dead horses lay splayed and bleeding beside them.

He was not yet sure which side had won. It appeared that he and Arthur were the only two left alive. All the other knights of the Round Table now lay dead, their armor reflecting the pink light of the setting sun.

Mordred, who had raised this army against Arthur, was slain by Arthur's own hand. In that fight, Mordred had not fallen before dealing Arthur a severe wound, enhanced by a deadly poison at the point of his sword. It had been concocted for him, no doubt, by his witch mother, Morgan le Fey.

"One good thing can come of this for you," Arthur spoke in a fading, forced voice. Uncannily a glint of merriment had found its way into his dying eyes. "No longer will the minstrels call you the handsomest man on the island save King Arthur."

A blast of dark laughter escaped from Trowa despite the dire circumstances. The minstrels who sang of the bold exploits of King Arthur and his noble knights of the Round Table always spoke of Trowa as _most handsome save Arthur_. It had never bothered him; he was not naturally vain.

What _had _irked him was that, of late, they had begun referring to him as _Trowa the one-handed_. He'd suffered a severed tendon during a particularly fierce battle and it had cost him the use of his left hand. he didn't want to be known as _the one-handed _because it implied weakness. The minstrels were quick to add. "Although he was one-handed, no three warriors drew blood in the same field faster than he." Nonetheless, Trowa still found his ailment an embarrassment.

"So, most handsome one remaining on the island, I have something to ask of you," Arthur continued, the glint of mirth still alive on his strained, drawn face.

Trowa shook his head. "I am not _yet _the most handsome," he replied. "And I would be glad never to have that title. Lean on me, and I can support you away from this bloody ground to where we can get you some care."

"There's no reason to move me, my surprisingly talkative friend," Arthur said with a short laugh, resisting Trowa's attempt to raise him. "The wound I suffered to my head, the one dealt by Mordred, is too deep. Let what will be come to pass."

He lifted his sword, Excalibur, which he still gripped at his side, several inches from the ground. "Take my sword and toss it into the middle of a lake. Return it to my kinswoman Helena, the Lady of the Lake. She who first gave it to me bade me promise I would never let it fall into any other hands but my own."

Trowa turned in every direction. "Do you mean the river?" Trowa asked, nodding toward the Camel River that ran under a nearby bridge.

Arthur shook his head and winced at the pain it caused him. "It must go back to the Lady of the Lake," he insisted.

Trowa heard the crash of the ocean's surf against the rocky shore a short way off. "I'll plunge it in the sea, then," he suggested.

Arthur gripped Trowa's arm with surprising strength and pulled himself up. "It must go back to the enchanted lake," he said, his eyes now burning with determination. "My soul cannot rest until this is done. Swear to me that you will return it to her. Swear!"

"I swear it," Trowa promised as Arthur slumped back onto the ground, dead.

Trowa sat down heavily on the chill ground beside Arthur, his friend and king. Excalibur gleamed in the sunlight, and the idea of using it to take his own life occurred to Trowa. He should be dead; all his companions lay lifeless around him. It was merely some quirk of fate that he still lived.

He sat, feeling that the life was gone from him, that he was some freakish breathing corpse whose soul had gone off to accompany the departed soul of his king.

Reaching across Arthur's lifeless body, he lifted Excalibur from Arthur's loosened grip and laid it on his own knees. Its golden, bejeweled hilt glistened with diamnonds and topaz.

How could he ever throw his king's weapon away into a lake? It should be hung on a wall as a remembrance of the greatest king the island of England had ever seen. But what wall? Arthur's castle at Camelot probably had already fallen to invading armies. There was no place for him to return to, no wall of honor on which to mount Arthur's sword. And besides – he had sworn to throw it in a lake.

"But what lake, Arthur?" he asked the dead companion beside him, addressing him as the friend he had been before becoming his king. "What lake?"

He sat beside Arthur for more than an hour. Then Trowa got on his knees and lifted his king, staggering slightly beneath the dead man's weight as he stood. There was nowhere to take him, but he could not just leave him there on the field.

Trowa carried Arthur toward the sea crashing at the bottom of tall rocky cliffs. The way down to the ocean was steep, yet Trowa was so deeply entrenched in sorrow that he barely noticed the difficulty.

When he reached the pebble-strewn beach, Trowa laid Arthur down while he collected driftwood and lashed together a raft with tough beach grass as rope. It would be strong enough for his purposes. He wasn't constructing a vessel that would have to last long.

When the raft was built, he laid Arthur on it and draped his own cloak over the dead man's body. He then heaped the raft with more beach grass and wood.

Trowa had witnessed warriors from across the North Sea bury their chieftains at sea in this way, and it seemed fitting. With the edge of his sword, he struck a flinty rock but got no spark. Repeated attempts brought no fire until he switched swords and hit the rock with Excalibur's blade. A spark instantly ignited a piece of grass, quickly creating a line of flame as it spread.

Satisfied that he'd built a bonfire strong enough not to be extinguished by the ocean breeze, he pushed the raft out into the surf and watched as the tides carried the fiery vessel away from him.

The salt of his silent tears mingled with the ocean water as he stood a long time and watched the raft disappear out to sea, the flames glinting on the darkening horizon. Once the raft was finally out of sight, Trowa returned to the beach. With no idea where to go or what to do next, he sat on the sand as a full moon rose and waves crashed onto the shore.

In his stunned state, with his mind finally free of the pressing urgency of battles and funerals, he recalled the strange thing that had happened to him in the field that day; how he'd swung his blade down upon his enemy, spraying a veil of blood before his own eyes. His heart had hammered with the effort and the relentless horror of flying body parts until he thought he could bear no more – _when suddenly he was transported out of the battle._

_Instead of flailing his sword in a fevered dervish of frenetic violence, he was suddenly lying peacefully on a sun-drenched rock. The tranquility surrounding him in this new place was so complete that the smallest sounds could be detected. A bird sang. A brook babbled and insects buzzed._

_His heart rate slowed and the warm rock soothed his tightly clenched muscles, relaxing them. He heard a soft sigh, and he had a feeling that the sound had come from his own mouth. He turned, as if, all too soon, his spirit were departing the serene space, and as he looked back he saw a young man reclining on the rock._

_Golden blonde hair fanned around his incredibly delicate, breathtakingly beautiful features. A sigh escaped lips that seemed almost poised to speak. He felt a strong urge to go back and kiss them…_

In the next second he was once again on the bloody battlefield, view slightly impeded by his long bangs, sprawled on his side. Not another man stood. As he staggered to his feet, he saw Arthur, down but still moving, several feet away. He'd had the strange but certain feeling that this mysterious flight he'd somehow taken out of his body had saved his own life.

Looking down now, he ran his good hand along Excalibur, which shone in the moonlight. With sorrow overcoming his green eyes, his mind swam as it struggled to understand all that had just happened.

Arthur, dead.

The other knights of Camelot, slain.

Surely this was the end of the world as he knew it.

TBC 

------------------------

**A/N:**

Sorry for the grimness of this chapter. And yes, Trowa as the green-eyed man was very predictable. Heh. Not sure when the next chapter would be made, but I will continue making this fic, if I'm still sane at the time. Gah, I hate my life. Tell me your thoughts on this fic, and I might even give out hints on what the next chapters will reveal. If I have the time to answer your reviews. Heh. Ok, 'tis time again to say "Ja!" 


	6. Chapter 5

**The Secret Ball**

By _Ninetails_

Chapter 5: Suspicions

"How was your _practice_?" Iria asked pointedly when Quatre returned from his supposed arms training yet again. She noticed the forked twig caught in the back of Quatre's shirt, the half of a leaf snarled in his sunlight hair, the dirt smudged on the back of his neck.

And with a glance at Quatre's feet she saw that though her brother's delicate shoes were not dirty, his ankles were.

Iria had long suspected that these training sessions were a fraud, since her brother had never been one for warfare and war skills, though both he and Duo were arduously trained in knife throwing and archery. They were never exposed to anything violent, and those guards who they manage to persuade into sword lessons never did so willingly, for fear of hurting the Lord's sons. Iria surmised that due to the unnecessary caution of the guards, her brother would not be as dirty as he was; exhausted, maybe, but not dingy. Their father insisted on the utmost cleanliness in every part of the manor. And now, here it was again for the second day – signs that he'd somehow gone beyond the wall. Besides everything else, the boy was drenched! She suspected that the wetness was not one of sweat.

Rain now pelted the window of the sewing room, and it was clear from his hair sticking to his face and the damp cloak that Quatre had been out in it!

Quatre plopped down on the cushions of the window seat, carefully arranging his wet cape to not dampen the seat. He gazed out the window at the falling rain. It was a habit both Iria, the eldest, and Quatre, the youngest – just minutes younger than Duo – shared, this tendency to stare longingly out the window, lost in thought.

_How had he escaped the manor wall? How could he possibly have done it? _Iria had to know._ Even though they are lads, they are never afforded much leeway as us, their sisters. Father would never allow any of us to stray out of the manor._

She, herself, burned to escape from this prison of a home. She read books; she knew she was too old to be unwed. Other women were mothers long before they were as old as she already was!

Iria put down her embroidery hoop and crossed the room to her brother. "Quatre, are you feeling well?" she asked softly.

Quatre shivered. Luminous eyes turned away from the window. "Oh, you startled me," he said.

"I see that," Iria commented, sitting beside him on the window seat, wary of any damp spots. "I asked if you were well because I noticed a distant gaze in your eyes."

Quatre straightened and seemed to force himself back from the daydream with which he'd been involved. A too bright smile formed on his lips, reminiscent of his twin, Duo. "I'm quite well, thank you. I was thinking about… food."

"Food…" Iria repeated, bristling inwardly at what she was certain was a bold-faced lie. _This_ twin didn't seem to share Duo's sentiment about lying.

"And what about food makes you so interested?"

"… I wanted to learn how to cook."

"Is that where you've really been disappearing to? The kitchens?"

Quatre blinked at her blankly as if he couldn't make sense of Iria's question. "Um… yes," he blurted after a moment.

"Oh? And has learning how to cook gotten you this soaked?"

"Well… the cook was going to cook pheasant so she asked me to kill one. It was caged outside with the geese. I had to get out and get it, it struggled and almost got away. That's how I got so wet."

Iria observed him with a mixture of annoyance and admiration. Quatre had countered all her questions; well, her brother would not put her off that easily. "Then why are your shoes dry though the rest of you is wet?"

"I removed them for fear of ruining them."

"Did the new kitchen servant show you how to kill the pheasant?" Iria pressed, undeterred.

Quatre cast a blank, uncomprehending stare at her.

"You've spent some time in the kitchen that surely you've met Milli, the cook's new helper," Iria elaborated on her question. Ha! She thought triumphantly as Quatre continued to stare at her with helpless incomprehension. She wanted to pinch his cheeks at that look, it reminded her of when he was very young. _I've got you now, little brother!_

If she ever needed proof that Quatre had not spent a single minute in the practice rooms, or in the kitchens, this was it! Milli had been helping in the kitchen for more than a month now. If Quatre had been there, he would have surely known that.

Quatre grasped Iria's hand and lowered his voice. "I have been out in the courtyard," he said repentantly. "I have found a small break in the wall, and I like to look through it."

A flood of urgency surged through Iria's veins. A million questions raced forward in her mind. _Had Quatre seen anyone? Had anyone seen him?_

Then she noticed, again the small piece of leaf in Quatre's damp hair. "Are you sure you did not find a way _through_ the opening?" Iria asked, gently extracting the leaf fragment.

Quatre took it from her. "This must have fallen inside the courtyard," he insisted. He suddenly stared intently at Iria. "Have you ever seen a battle?" he asked, "the kind with swords, and knights, and blood?"

Iria drew back, surprised by the question. "No. did you see a battle through the wall opening?"

"It was a sort of dream," Quatre replied, his aqua eyes troubled by the memory. "I don't think I was asleep, though I suppose it's possible that I dreamt it. It was so real, as if I was actually on the battlefield." A shudder ran through his frail body as he appeared to relive the awful event.

Suddenly a strange glow began to emanate from beneath the velvet cape Quatre had tucked between himself and the window. Iria imagined a giant firefly had awoken beneath the cape. Before Quatre could stop her, she drew the cape back and beheld a beautiful bowl lined with gold. A ball of light swirled within it.

"What is it?" Iria demanded.

TBC

Author's Notes:

I am SO sorry for the cliffie! And I am very sorry for taking too long with updating. My school is HELL. Gah.

I've worked on a few chapters and expect the next one in a day or so. I still have a few days of vacation left and I swear I'm gonna work on this fic if it's the last thing I do! (hopefully, it really won't be) So, next chappie would be the start of the midnight balls. Wai! Duo seems to be lost in this chappie. Gah.


	7. Chapter 6

**The Secret Ball**

By _Ninetails_

Chapter 6: The Scrying Bowl

Quatre looked up at his sister, his mind working hard to think of a way to explain the bowl without admitting he'd been in the forest. It would be easier to tell the truth, but then all his sisters and his twin would want to go and his father would be on to them in no time.

The true story was that once again, as he had done the day before, he'd slipped through the opening in the wall and stole out into the forest under the pretense of taking sword lessons – turned cooking lessons. It had been just hours ago.

The day was gray and he clutched at the cushions, remembering.

Taking off his silk shoes, he once again began to pick his way over slippery rocks and fallen branches, moss and damp dirt. A mist of rain had caused strands of silken hair to dampen against his brow.

He'd gone only several steps when he paused.

An ornate bowl, from which a strange light emanated, had sat nestled in the gnarled roots of a giant, dead tree. The sky had been so gray that the unearthly swirl of light couldn't have been a reflection of the sun caught in the bowl's golden interior.

Quatre had knelt and picked up the bowl, carefully holding it in his hands. The light continued to swirl inside the bowl, then unexpectedly expanded until it poured out of the bowl.

Startled, he'd tossed away the bowl, which had slid across moss before coming to rest upside down. The glow had shone a few minutes more, illuminating the mossy ground, and then receded. Wary yet curious, Quatre had retrieved the bowl, now looking simply like an elegant vessel with a golden interior.

At that moment the sky had opened, causing a furious dance of light and shadows on the leaves above his head. Clutching the bowl under his cape, he'd ran back to the manor. His first stop had been to his chamber, where he'd planned to hide the bowl in his trunk. But two maids were in there, cleaning. "We'll be done in a moment, lad," one of them told Quatre. "Go join your brother in the study, if you please."

Quatre opted to go to the sewing room, where he thought that only a few of his sisters would be, hoping to conceal the bowl under his cape. He'd meant to keep it hidden from them at least until he could think of a way to explain where he'd found it without revealing that he'd been out in the forest.

But now ten curious faces surrounded him, alerted by Iria's loud question. "What is it?" asked Saens, echoing her sister's query, unable to take her blue eyes off the ever-expanding ball of light in the bowl.

Staring more closely into the spinning glow, Quatre observed an image of a figure moving inside the ball of light. It was in miniature, like a small, moving painting.

Straining to bring the blurry image into focus, he saw that the figure was female. If all his sisters had not been standing around him, he might have thought the figure was one of them; the family resemblance was that strong. Could it be some eleventh sister?

The woman in the glowing ball gestured, as though she wanted to show Quatre something. Why was she so blurry, though? Was she under water? That's how it seemed to Quatre, but how could she breathe if she were underwater?

Quatre glanced up at his sisters. "What do you think she's trying to tell us?" he asked.

"Who?" Sumire asked.

"Don't you see the woman in the bowl?" Quatre asked.

"I only see light," Ayame said, and the others nodded in agreement.

Looking back to the figure in the bowl, Quatre saw that the woman had lain down as if asleep. Then she stood and pointed at the floor. What was she trying to say?

With the bowl still in his hands, Quatre left the sewing chamber and headed down the wide, turning staircase toward the first floor bedchambers that housed his sisters' and his sleeping quarters. His sisters trailed along behind him.

"What's that, twin o' mine?" Duo asked as they passed by him. "Where are you taking it?"

"I want to see something," Quatre replied with a tight smile for his twin.

They entered the girls' bedchamber with its ten beds, five on either side of the large room. It was each of his sisters' favorite place in the whole manor house because it was all that remained of the original cottage before the other rooms and floors had been added. It retained the original wooden walls, rustic beams, and wide, rough-hewn floorboards.

Once they were all inside, Quatre locked the door and dropped to his knees. Flattening onto the floor, he peered under the rows of beds. Not seeing what he searched for on one side, he did the same thing on the other.

"What are you doing, little brother? What is it that you search for?" asked Charme.

Quatre picked himself off the floor and sat back on his heels. Glancing down, he saw that the woman in the glow was still pointing to the floor. "What do _you_ see? What is it? What's in the bowl?" Duo asked rapidly, keenly interested.

When Quatre told him, a look of sudden inspiration swept across his twin's face. Hurrying to the farthest space that occupied his and Quatre's beds. He gestured for his siblings to enter the space enclosed by a screen. He gestured for them to assist him in shoving his heavy iron-wrought bed away from the wall. As soon as the bed was moved, they saw a trapdoor with an iron handle in the floor.

The sisters shot questioning looks at Duo, while his twin intently studied the trapdoor. "What is it?" Ayame asked, slowly approaching the iron handle.

"I discovered it a long time ago," he explained with a wide grin. "A breeze wafts up from its cracks and the cold air wakes me sometimes in the night. It cools me in summer, a definite plus, but makes me shiver in winter."

"Why have you never mentioned it before?" Iria asked him sharply.

"It's always been there, ever since we moved into this room," Duo explained with a shrug and a jaunty swish of his chestnut braid. "I assumed it was simply part of the house, an old root cellar or something. This room was originally the back part of the kitchen."

The enclosed room became alive with nervous anticipation. "You say she's pointing to the floor?" Saens checked with Quatre.

Quatre nodded.

They all looked to Iria as they always did in times of indecision. "Perhaps we should tell father of this," Iria considered slowly.

All of them scowled at her. "This is no time to be so sensible, eldest sister," Duo objected, voicing what they were all thinking. Here was an adventure thrown in their path when they were so absolutely starved for anything new and exciting.

Iria nodded a bit reluctantly and bent forward to grasp the handle. Tugging at it, she managed to pry it up slightly. Her twin brothers immediately came forward to help her, crowding their hand onto the handle.

"Now!" Iria shouted as they united to give the door a powerful yank. The effort threw them backward onto the floor in a pile, their sisters hurriedly backing off in a flurry of long skirts.

As they got up, Quatre was the first to begin moving to the drum and lute music wafting through the open trapdoor. At first he didn't even know he was swaying in time with it, but then he noticed Duo and their sisters doing the same. As if unable to resist, he stepped forward and turned in a full circle, swinging his arms in a graceful arc, beckoning them downwards.

The drumbeats grew louder, more insistent, moving the siblings faster and faster with their driving rhythms. The siblings laughed with giddy delight, jubilant as they twirled and leapt. The music swelled to a crashing crescendo and, one by one, with one boy taking the lead, and the other boy tailing the sisters, they climbed down into the opening in the floor.

TBC

06/13/07

Author's Notes:

Oh. My. God. I had a VERY close encounter with an exhibitionist at the bus this morning, as I was on my way to school for enrollment. Gah. I'm traumatized for life. (shudders) If you want details, tell me in a review or e-mail or something. Gah.

'Nyways, next chappie would be a short interval featuring the villain of the story. I hope you liked how this chappie turned out. I'm too not in the mood to add more, what with being somewhat-molested in the bus and all. Gah! (shudders)


	8. Chapter 7

Standard disclaimers apply.

**The Secret Ball**

By _Ninetails_

Chapter 7: Reconnaissance

Just before the monastery bell sounded, the field mouse finished its run across the rainy courtyard. It darted into the manor kitchen through its usual tunnel under the kitchen wall.

Rasha, the cook, spotted it instantly.

"Away, you mouse! Pest!" She beat at the field mouse with the end of her straw broom. The mouse hid behind a chest and waited until a _bang_ told it that Rasha had gone out the back door into the rain. It quickly ran to the center of the kitchen. A flash of purple light filled the room.

A woman dressed as a servant stood where the mouse had been. Sharp features and sunken cheeks were made even more unpleasant by her beady, angry eyes. She peered around the kitchen with a look of disgust; her lip curling in dismay at her surroundings.

"Ah, Milli, you gave me a fright!" Rasha cried as she came back inside, one hand held over her head against the rain, the other holding something in her apron. "How you do pop in and out! It's not normal!"

Onto a table she emptied the damp contents of her apron, fresh herbs from the garden: thyme, rosemary, lavender, and lemongrass. "Gather half the herbs into bundles and hang them to dry. Leave the other half for the chicken tonight."

Milli wandered over to a bowl of greens and began munching, paying no mind to the slowly seething cook.

"Mind me, Milli!" Rasha scolded. "If I didn't need the help so badly I'd boot you back to wherever it is you came from."

Milli sneered at her indolently. I_f you only knew with whom you were toying_, she thought as she lazily gathered up the herbs and tossed them into her apron. She took them out into the wet courtyard letting the back door slam behind her. Letting the herbs drop onto the ground, she stepped back from the building and gazed up at the rain-soaked windows. She couldn't see Helena's brats, though she knew they must be up there.

Her face tightened with anger. Why hadn't she been given the gift second sight? She, who had so many powers, could shift shape without a thought, yet she could _not_ see any more than the merest of mortals! For her, a scrying pool was no more than a bucket of murky water.

Ah, but she knew Helena, grand mistress of second sight in every way, was trying to contact someone. She felt the increase of energy in the air, felt it in her very bones. She'd been aware of it for more than a month now. That's why she'd assumed these humiliating forms to come in and have a look.

At first, she'd thought it would be good enough to come in as a mouse. But she soon discovered that the form didn't allow her to hear what the chattermouth boy and prattling girls were saying. Their voices were like banging gongs to her in that tiny form. They hurt her large ears with their screams of laughter and endless blabber.

So she'd hit upon the idea of transforming into a servant. That way she could observe the brats and also hear the gossip of the other servants – not that there was any good gossip. How could there be, with ten girls shut up in this manor as if it were a convent, and two boys who were almost in the same plight?

She'd been aware, of course, that Helena had tried to contact them before, that she never really stopped trying. Whatever she was doing wasn't working, though. These brats seemed completely unaware of their mother's attempts to contact them.

But now things were happening.

She knew that three priestesses from the mystic island of Avalon had gone out in a golden ship to retrieve Arthur's slain body. They'd plucked him from a fiery raft and taken him back to Avalon for a proper burial.

It infuriated her! Where was the royal funeral envoy for her slain son? If she had not spirited his body away, it would have lain there on the blood-soaked battlefield along with the rest, unattended and unmourned.

For Mordred, the priestesses had no time. Only precious Arthur, _the great king_, merited their attention. She and her son had disgraced the island of Avalon, they said. They wanted nothing to do with Morgan le Fey or her son, Mordred.

Let them do as they liked. She was Morgan le Fey, the greatest sorceress the world had ever seen, and she could care for herself – more than care for herself.

Arthur was dead now, but she had learned that Excalibur was not on the burning raft with his body. Nor was it in the hands of the priestesses of Avalon. Where was it? All the soldiers and knights had died that day. Had some beggar or thief come along and taken it?

A terrible realization struck her. Helena must be searching for Excalibur! That was it! Even from her watery prison beneath the ground, she'd discovered – no doubt by means of her powers of second sight – what had happened to Arthur!

Morgan le Fey could not allow Helena to get Excalibur before she did. It might provide her with enough power to break free!

A line of worry creased Morgan's brow. That one son had gone roaming in the forest yesterday and again today. She didn't see what difference it could possibly make. Helena hadn't been able to contact them for the last twelve years. Surely it didn't matter what side of a wall they stood on.

Still, something _was_ happening. And she was determined to find out what it was.

TBC

Author's Notes:

OMG, I am SO sorry for the long delay! Gah! Well, my excuse is that I spent the year finishing my course in college, plus two months of reviewing, and actually taking the Nursing Licensure exam further distracted me from continuing this fic. Now that I'm through with my schooling and currently (happily) unemployed ('cause I'm still waiting for the results of the exam), I'll try to work more on this fic, and finally finish Shahrastini (if you people actually read that fic). Thanks for those who added this story in their favourites and thanks so much to the people who reviewed. I really appreciate the encouragement (and threats?). Heh.

The next chapter will feature the Midnight Dance, and an update on Helena's plight.

Reviews will be very much appreciated.


	9. Chapter 8

Standard disclaimers apply.

**The Secret Ball**

By _Ninetails_

Chapter 8: Helena Calls

Helena was aware of the very moment she contacted her children. She saw Quatre's eyes, so like her own, in her mind with utter clarity.

The last time Helena had seen those eyes, they belonged to a baby, but she recognized their distinct color. Quatre's twin, Duo, had eyes that were a deep amethyst in color, while Quatre inherited her own amethyst eyes.

Quatre must have somehow, through some lucky happenstance, come upon the scrying bowl at last!

Oh, and such clever children she had! Leave it to Duo, always so keenly observant and curious even as a child, to notice and recall the opening in the floor, just as Helena had hoped he would.

In her wild frenzy of enchanted tunnelling, Helena had created a passageway that cut right into the root cellar under the cottage. It was a passage with a dry path that they would be able to follow all the way to the lake.

Helena began to pace, wishing she could see her babes. Apparently Quatre had put the bowl down, leaving it behind in the bedchamber.

She'd lost contact with them for now, but if they found her, she'd require a way to signal them that she was nearby.

Gazing upwards through the water, Helena concentrated on minerals she knew floated in the lake water. "Minerals burn with fiery might; out of watery depths glow with light!"

TBC

Author's notes:

... And that's it for now. Heh. Don't kill me? Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter! (huggles)


	10. Chapter 9

Standard disclaimers apply.

**The Secret Ball**

By _Ninetails_

Chapter 9: Quatre Searches

The music drew the siblings through dark passages. Time lost meaning as they travelled farther into the earth. In places, the air became moist, then dry again, then damp once more.

As they went, Quatre had the feeling that they were on a quest of some kind, searching for something. Were they looking for the woman in the bowl?

They came to a dark, stony ledge running along a stone wall. The tunnel's music became faint and the urge to dance faded along with it. They had to feel their way along in the dark. Quatre was aware that the rock wall at his side was becoming wet. Soon drops of cold water fell on his nose and cheeks from the rock ceiling overhead.

In another several yards they came out to a cavern many spans high. Luminous stalagmites jutted up from the earth, bathing the cavern in gentle light. Gazing upward, they marvelled at the spectacular stalactites, some reaching nearly to the floor. They, too, gave off a phosphorescent light.

In the center of this cavern was a wide, sparkling lake. Tiny but sharp lights danced just below its crystal clear surface. "What are those lights?" Quatre questioned, his voice echoing off the stony walls.

e walked with the others to the edge of the underground lake. All twelve of them were reflected back to him in its still surface. The lights appeared to dance across their hair and clothing, transforming them into magical creatures. "The lights make us look like fairies," Sumire observed with a delighted giggle, giving a saucy grin.

"Or royalty bathed in splendour," added Duo with a jaunty grin.

After they had gazed at their reflections awhile longer, they began to settle on the many rocks in the cavern to rest. Looking around, Quatre saw that there were many entrances into the cavern. It made him wonder how extensive the network of tunnels around this cavern actually was.

He took a seat beside his twin, who had already shucked off his shoes and folded up his trousers to dangle his feet in the clear water. Quatre gently held the end of his twin's long chestnut braid, and stroked the soft strands on his cheek.

Iria sat beside him then. So much had happened in these few hours just past and Quatre hardly understood any of it.

"I think the woman whom you saw in the bowl is our mother," Iria said after a few moments of silence.

Her words caught Quatre's breath. What Iria had said was so unexpected. Then he recalled how he'd noticed the resemblance of the mysterious woman to his sisters. "Why do you say that?" Duo questioned, sharp eyes roving his eldest sister's face.

"You two were babies back then, but I remember her gazing searchingly into a gold-lined bowl such as the one we now have," Iria told them.

"Why am I the only one who can see her?" Quatre asked.

Iria shook her head."I don't know. I always had the feeling, though, that our mother had some kind of power, some gift for seeing beyond regular sight. Perhaps you have it too."

"Do you think our mother still lives?" Duo asked wistfully, taking his twin's unoccupied hand in his.

Iria snorted disdainfully. "What does it matter? If she's alive she's proved she doesn't care about us." As she spoke, tears welled in Iria's eyes, but she brushed them away brusquely. "Dead or alive, she can't do us much good so I try not to think about her."

Quatre didn't think much about his mother either because he barely remembered her. Yet the idea that he might have caught a glimpse of her in the bowl was too intriguing to dismiss. "Why would I have seen her in the bowl?" he wondered aloud.

"Perhaps the bowl holds memories," Duo suggested softly, his gaze trained to the lake.

"I have no memory of our mother, not any clear ones," Quatre pointed out. "Sometimes I think I recall the smell of her, though. I think she smelled like lake water, although I have never seen, much less smelled, a lake. At least not until right now, and I'm not sure this is a normal lake."

"I do believe I have those thoughts too," added his twin, giving his brother's hand a light squeeze.

"You've seen a lake before," Iria corrected them."There was once a lake next to our home. Our mother let us swim in it with her all the time."

Although they couldn't see over the wall, the children could peer down past it from the top windows of the manor. Even if he had not gone out, Quatre would have known there was no lake in the forest. "What happened to it?" he asked.

"It disappeared at the same time our mother left. Father never mentioned it to anyone – as if it had never been there," Iria replied, eyes misting once more.

"Don't you think it's odd that he didn't question it?" Quatre pressed.

"The whole thing is strange," Iria agreed. "But isn't it strange that we are sitting in a huge cavern right now?"

Quatre and Duo smiled at Iria's words. "Incredibly odd," they said at the same time.

Iria stood abruptly as a new worry seized her. "I'm not sure we know the way back," she said, glancing around at the many pathways leading into the cavern.

"We came in that way," Quatre said, pointing at the passage directly behind them.

"I think it was over there," Saens called to them.

The siblings came back together as the seriousness of their situation dawned on them. "Where's the music?" Duo asked. "Perhaps we can follow that back."

They listened intently until they detected the faintest strains of lute music. The siblings gazed at one another hopefully before realizing that the music was coming from every opening in the cavernous rock wall.

TBC

Author's Notes:

Heh, thanks to those (3) who reviewed the last chapter!! (huggles)

I think it's about time to know what Trowa is up to, ne? I will work on the next chapter, IF you people review.


	11. Chapter 10

Here's Trowa's chapter, as promised.

Standard disclaimers apply.

**The Secret Ball**

By _Ninetails_

* * *

Chapter 10: Sir Trowa No More

Sir Trowa began walking along the shore, heedless of the effects of the surf on his chain mail armor. He had secured Excalibur in his own scabbard and tucked his sword into his belt. With no thought to a destination, he moved like a sleepwalker. When hunger gripped his stomach, he barely noticed it.

So deep and complete was his despair that he remained nearly oblivious to the pounding surf or the calling seabirds overhead. He was the walking dead, the last man standing in a battle that had taken every last soul.

He would have walked into the ocean, confident that his heavy armor would weigh him down beneath its waves, if it had not been for his promise to the dying Arthur. Now he was obliged to stay alive long enough to fulfil his mission – and not a moment longer.

Would any lake do for completing the task? Did he have to throw the sword into a special lake? How would he ever know if he'd done it right? Why do it at all? Arthur was dead – what difference could this make to him now?

Still, he had sworn. He'd given his word as a knight of the Round Table. The importance of that might be fast becoming a memory, disappearing from the world altogether, but it was still crucial to him.

Arthur had taken him on as a groom and valet when he was but twelve and Arthur was a young king. Trowa had carried Arthur's armor, readied his clothing, made sure his horse was watered and brushed down properly. The servant had grown to be a companion, confidant, and – in his early teen years, when Arthur felt he'd earned it – knight.

In the five years he'd been a knight he had seen and done unimaginable things. He'd helped Arthur do battle with a village of mountain people, all closely related to one another, who were so big – both tall and wide – that they were considered giants by their neighbors.

When these giants began kidnapping young women from neighboring towns, desiring to bring new bloodlines into their gigantic genes, the townspeople prevailed on Arthur and Trowa to save their captured wives and daughters. They'd returned every last woman, though the giants had left the warriors battered and in need of new armor.

He had been beside Arthur when they slew a fierce cave-dwelling creature with breath so hot people claimed it breathed fire. Merlin had looked it up in his volume of ancient wisdom and identified it as a pterosaur, though the terrified local villagers had named it a dragon.

When Arthur wed his queen, Guinevere, and began staying closer to Camelot, Trowa had still believed that their days of adventure, merriment, and chivalry would go on forever. Even after he'd lost the use of his left hand while fighting beside Arthur against some invaders, he'd remained hopeful. He never would have believed that such a defeat as they had just suffered would ever come to them. But now he was certain that a new age of darkness had befallen.

He stopped only to sleep on the sand. That night he woke up with the high tide nearly over his mouth and scrambled up to higher ground to resume his slumber. At dawn he awoke again to find sand and pebbles covering him. It scratched him so badly that he shed his armor until he was down to his tunic, leggings, and boots. The only piece he retained was his belt with its scabbard containing Excalibur and his own sword.

By the time Trowa staggered off the shoreline and into the nearest village, he looked every bit the wild madman he felt himself to be.

"Hey, you, one hand!" a richly dressed man called to him as he withdrew a fat purse from beneath his cape. "How much will you take for the sword?"

Trowa's eyes darted to his lame hand. When he was in full armor he could conceal its condition under a sleeve of chain mail, but now it was exposed for the useless appendage it had become. Stung by the humiliating insult, he glowered at the man.

"Oh come now," the man cajoled. "You must have stolen it from some very grand fallen knight. There are quite a few of them these days I hear tell. It can be of no use to you, but my gold coins might buy you a meal – or a bath!" Chuckling at his own words, the man poured out several coins and advanced to Trowa, his hand offering the coins.

Slowly Trowa withdrew Excalibur from his scabbard.

"There's a bright fellow," the man said, misunderstanding Trowa's intention.

Trowa slashed the sword over the man's head with the lightning movement he was known for. Dropping his coins, the man fled, horrified.

Giggles and applause made Trowa turn. Two dirty, ragged children sat on a stone curb, pleased by the display. Trowa scooped up the dropped coins and tossed them gently in their direction. "We know where there's a spare straw mat in beggar's alley, but you have to be fast to get it," one of the children, a girl of about six told Trowa as she stuck one of the coins into the pocket of her skirt.

"Yeah, the old man who had it died last night," added a boy of about seven. "If you hurry I think the mat is still there."

With a nod of consent, Trowa followed the excited children into the poorest part of the town. He learned that the boy was named Mat and the girl was Egwene. They led him down a narrow alley where beggars were living. "You're in luck," said Egwene. "Here's the mat!"

"We can come back with a piece of potato for you later," Mat offered. "Mum used to have me bring it to the old man, and I don't think she knows he's dead yet. I'll give it to you."

"How'd you hurt your hand?" Egwene asked, staring at the coarse scar running across his palm.

"In a fight," Trowa replied as he settled onto the moldy mat.

"We'll be back with that piece of potato, don't you worry," Mat assured him as he and his sister ran off.

Trowa waved to them languidly as he turned on his side and took his place among the beggars in the alleyway.

TBC

* * *

Author's Notes:

Poor Trowa! I hate how things are turning out for him, but it'll have a turn for the worse until he meets Quatre. This is the start of his life as Nanashi, at least, in this fic.

Heh, thanks once again to those who reviewed the last chapter!! (huggles)

Some people may recognize the two children's names as coming from Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series. I love those books! Too bad poor Robert's dead. (bawls)

Next chapter, we might take a look at what's happened to Duo, Quatre and the girls. If I find the inclination to write it. Gah.


End file.
